


Consanguinity

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Family Drama, Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Unique suffering I assure you, Wallace was not even supposed to be in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 18:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10341666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: If anyone were to ask Treavor Pendleton about his family, he would be able to name every individual with even a drop of Pendleton blood in their veins eight generations past. If anyone were to ask Treavor Pendleton whom he actually considered family, well, that answer would be a lot shorter.Or: The Life and Loss of Treavor Pendleton, Lord Extraordinaire.





	

If anyone were to ask Treavor Pendleton about his family, he would be able to name every individual with even a drop of Pendleton blood in their veins eight generations past (though, of course, deliberately leaving out the offspring of his great-grandfather and the Serkonan chambermaid he took for his second wife). He could recall every Lord, every Count, Baron and Duke the Pendleton line had ever produced. He could even recount every other noble family the Pendletons had formed connections with through marriage, the most important of which was the Kaldwin family, the line of Emperors and Empresses. Yes, Treavor Pendleton could tell you absolutely everything about his family.

If anyone were to ask Treavor Pendleton whom he actually _considered_ family, well, that answer would be a lot shorter.

When Treavor was born, his immediate family consisted of four: his father, his mother, and his older twin brothers. Not five minutes into his life, that number was reduced by one – his mother had lost too much blood during the delivery, and she passed away before ever getting the chance to hold her youngest son.

Out of his remaining family, Treavor held the most love for his father. Lord Pendleton had already been old when Custis and Morgan were born, having wed a woman more than a decade his junior in order to produce offspring (because the Abbey forbid he should hand Pendleton Estate over to his brother, that drunkard). Most of his time was spent attending court, entertaining guests and handling paperwork. There was little time for his sons, whom he mostly left in the care of servants, though Treavor did not have any particularly bad memories from his interactions with his father – just not any particularly happy ones, either.

Now, his brothers, they were an entirely different story. Custis and Morgan had emerged into the world as one being, two minds conjoined at the hand. While their physical bond had since been severed, they were, unfortunately, still very much of the same mind. And what seemed to be most prominently on their minds was the pure and unadulterated loathing they felt for their younger brother.

To say they were cruel would be an understatement. At nine, they had tied their five-year-old brother to his crib and let loose an array of vipers into it, very nearly taking the youngest Pendleton’s life. At fourteen, they had gifted their brother a visit from a courtesan for his tenth birthday – a courtesan who jumped out of the cake, in front of all the guests, mind you. Naturally, the twins had been able to convince their father that Treavor had begged them for the special gift, and it was the youngest Pendleton who received the punishment. There were still aristocrats who liked to tell that tale when gossip was scarce. Even as adults, the twins had damn near killed their younger brother during a hunting trip, claiming they had mistaken him for a deer.

In between the extremes, there were the beatings, the verbal abuse, the destroying of possessions. Custis and Morgan Pendleton did everything they could to make their younger brother miserable. All because his birth had caused the death of Lady Pendleton, a fact they had held against Treavor for as long as he could remember.

The remainder of the living Pendletons existed of boring elders, little children and lower aristocrats Treavor almost never saw. They didn’t feel like family any more than his stuffed animals did.

There were others, though, who got close enough for him to consider them family. The first came when Treavor was nine: Lady Prismall, a widowed middle-aged woman who had caught the attention of Lord Pendleton at the last big social event that had been held. Her hair was an ugly dyed red, her eyes baggy, her bosom saggy and her teeth yellowing, but somehow she had been able to sink her perfectly manicured claws into Lord Pendleton not a month after her husband had passed. It did not take her long to convince him to marry her, and so, before he turned ten, Treavor had a stepmother.

Stepmother wasn’t as good as mother, Treavor knew, but her arrival excited him all the same. He’d never known a mother before, and he was curious. And perhaps, he had thought with foolish hope, perhaps Custis and Morgan would like their new mother. Perhaps they’d forgive him for killing their old one.

But Lady Prismall turned out to be a vile woman, as ugly on the inside as she was on the outside. She had wrapped Lord Pendleton firmly around her bony finger, and before long she could play him like a violin. Unsurprisingly, Custis and Morgan only became more violent towards Treavor, blaming him for the terrible creature that had invaded their home. After all, Lord Pendleton would never have needed to remarry if their mother had still been alive.

It was only four years later, after she tried to convince her husband to denounce his sons and name the boy she’d conceived with Lord Prismall the heir to the Pendleton Estate that Lord Pendleton finally realised his wife’s true nature. She was sent packing mere days after Treavor’s thirteenth birthday. His father was rarely ever seen without some drink in his hand after the whole affair, if he even bothered to rise from his bed at all.

Later that same year, Pendleton Manor gained a new inhabitant: a fetching young lady named Waverly, the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Boyle. It wasn’t until much later that Treavor learned she had been sent as a ward to gain the favour of one of the Pendleton children, to create an alliance between Pendleton and Boyle through marriage. At thirteen, Treavor Pendleton could only think of Waverly Boyle as the most beautiful creature in all of Dunwall.

And, to his stunning surprise, she took a liking to him. Him, Treavor. Not Custis, not Morgan; _him_.

Needless to say, Treavor spent every possible waking moment in her company. She was soft-spoken and fidgety at first, unsure if she could place her trust in the youngest Pendleton, but soon she confided in him her every thought. She told him of her dream to travel to all the islands of the Empire and beyond, to see everything the world had to offer. She told him of her elder sisters, a quiet musician and an outspoken man-eater, neither of whom Waverly felt a great deal of affection for. She told him everything.

In return, Treavor shared his secrets with her, too; his dislike for his brothers, the horrid things they did to him, his desire to rise above them and be a great important person in the world someday.

And Waverly took everything he’d confided in her and passed it on to Custis and Morgan.

The next weeks were the worst of his life. His twin brothers used all the ammunition Waverly had given them with great precision, shooting him down viciously, day after day, and now he did not even have the girl he’d thought to be his friend to help him get through it. He was utterly heartbroken.

As it turned out, Waverly hadn’t given a plague rat’s behind about Treavor; she’d set her sights on Morgan the moment she arrived at Pendleton Manor, and she had picked up on the twins’ hatred for their younger brother almost immediately. Custis and Morgan were delighted by the cruel way she’d crushed Treavor’s spirit, and for a short, horrible time, it seemed as though Waverly would soon become a Pendleton.

However, the bond between Custis and Morgan was too strong to be broken by anyone, even a woman as cunning as Waverly Boyle. Custis was not amused by Waverly’s favouritism towards his twin, though it seemed he was more upset by the loss of time he could spend with his brother than he was jealous of the womanly attention Morgan was receiving. Morgan, in turn, preferred Custis’ company over all other, and he spurned Waverly’s advances quite violently. It did not take long for her to back off.

After that fiasco, Waverly seemed to realize that she didn’t have a chance of landing one of the Pendleton heirs as a husband, and she would have to settle for less. She came to Treavor’s room not a day after Morgan had rejected her, her eyes teary and her lips spewing excuses. Custis and Morgan had put her up to everything, she lied, and she’d been too scared of them to refuse. But she had started to like him, Treavor, during the time they’d spent together, and she implored him to give her another chance.

She looked so dejected, his beautiful Waverly, that Treavor almost obliged. But he was a Lord of House Pendleton, and he was smarter than that, so he refused, savouring whatever was left of his battered pride.

Waverly returned to Boyle Manor a year after, to assume the role of Boyle heir after her eldest sister Lydia had refused and middle sister Esma had brought too much disgrace on the family to inherit the Boyle Estate – if the rumours amongst the nobility were to be believed, Esma had conceived an illegitimate child with some nobody the aristocrats didn’t dare speak of.

So Pendleton Manor became quiet again – or as quiet as it could be with Custis and Morgan skulking about. When their father passed some months after Waverly’s departure, however, Treavor’s life took a turn for the more peaceful. With Custis and Morgan as Lords of Pendleton Estate, they were often far too busy to torture their brother with the same frequency they used to. They still made sure there was always some time in their busy schedule to remind their little brother of his place, naturally, but they had too little time to come up with any more of the elaborate schemes Treavor still had nightmares of.

Treavor, on his part, waited eagerly for his twenty-first birthday to come around. He spent most of his adulthood away from Pendleton Manor, and away from Custis and Morgan. A great portion of his time was devoted to women – specifically, bedding women. With little to no prospect of marriage, as both Pendleton heirs were still unwed, Treavor was free to do as he pleased, with as many women as he pleased. He was good at it, too; trying to avoid abuse from his brothers had made Treavor very good at telling others exactly what they wanted to hear, and his honeyed tongue worked wonders on women. Convincing a woman to be intimate with him, especially high-born women who were not intimidated by his title, made Treavor feel powerful, a feeling he hadn’t often experienced with Custis and Morgan looming over him most of his life. His greatest forte was, without a doubt, the night he finally took Waverly Boyle – only to coax her sister Lydia into his bed the night after. He would have made the humiliation absolute by completing the hat trick with Esma, who had wanted to make love to him under the night sky. Rain had unfortunately ruined his streak, but he still looked back upon his three-day stay at the Boyle Manor with fondness, having finally gotten back at Weasely Waverly for the heartache she’d caused him.

Another upside to adulthood was being allowed to drink as much as he wished. Like his father, Treavor found a tremendous comfort in the mistress called liquor, especially during the times when he needed to remain at the estate for more than a few days on end. He found it calmed his nerves too, and made him bolder when speaking to the fairer sex, and so it wasn’t long before he, mirroring the late Lord Pendleton, was rarely seen without a drink of some sort nearby.

Unfortunately, Custis and Morgan did not approve of their younger brother raiding their father’s liquor cabinet on a daily basis, and Outsider forbid they would ever allow Treavor to spend any of the Pendleton fortune, no matter how rich they were. But Treavor was clever, and he heard many things he was not supposed to during his nightly escapades with his fellow nobles. And secrets were worth a lot of coin to the right people, in particular the man whose whole profession revolved around them: the Royal Spymaster, Hiram Burrows.

So Treavor Pendleton had wealth, Treavor Pendleton had alcohol, and Treavor Pendleton had women. And for once, Treavor Pendleton did not envy his brothers all that much.

More than a decade went by in this fashion. Then the plague came, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin was slain and the entire city was thrown into disarray. To top it all off, the silver mines from which the Pendletons made their fortune were drying up, and with Custis and Morgan now spending nearly all their time at the Golden Cat for whatever reason, the task of keeping up a façade of wealth and importance fell to Treavor. It would have been near impossible in any case, but with the twins continuously selling heirlooms to fund their extensive stay at the ‘bathhouse’, Treavor could not hope to uphold the Pendleton name properly. He tried to appeal to his extended family, but they refused to answer the call of the younger Pendleton, as he was no heir. He even wrote to the Lord Regent to plead for aid, hoping against hope that their history would compel Burrows to send some coin his way. That letter returned unopened. Eventually, even the servants began to notice the lack of frivolous furnishings in the manor, and many stole away in the middle of the night with a few trinkets, afraid the plague would soon be upon the Pendleton Estate.

Indeed, Treavor was at a loss – until the sighting of a poster at the edge of town, detailing an upcoming hound fight. Gambling should have been beneath a Lord, but Treavor Pendleton was desperate, and so he took the last of the coin from the once laden safe and made for the Hound Pits in the Old Port District.

At first, he was afraid to be recognized – what would the other nobles say if they got wind of the Pendletons’ lack of funds? – but he soon realized the people in the Hound Pits did not care for him, or any other aristocrat. The only thing that mattered to them was coin, and that he had, little as the amount may have been. He placed it all on a single fight, crossed his fingers and hoped for a miracle.

And by the Outsider, it happened. The hound he’d placed his faith in pulled through, and Treavor received triple the coin he had bet.

It was still but a faction of the wealth he was used to, but Treavor managed it well. He set to refurnishing Pendleton Manor properly, a few pieces every week. For good measure, he also sent a stash of coin to Custis and Morgan periodically, lest they return to the manor to undo all the hard work he’d been putting in. Meanwhile, he kept making trips to the Hound Pits every fortnight with a set amount of coin, nearly always returning with at least double the fortune he’d brought in. It wasn’t easy, but Treavor was faring.

Until that horrible, stomach-dropping announcement began blasting regularly through the many speakers mounted throughout the capital: ‘ _The Old Port District has been added to the evacuation list’_. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, with it being so close to the already evacuated Rudshore Financial District, but it was despairing nonetheless. What would Treavor do to retain his financial security now?

He mulled it over again and again during the following month, carefully rationing the coin he still had, but when it started to run out, Treavor realised he had very few options. He knew there were likely some survivors still hanging about in the Old Port District, possibly enough to keep the Hound Pits and its pub open in secret. He could go back, risking the plague, to find out. His other choice was to remain at Pendleton Hall, let the coin run out completely and wait for Custis and Morgan to return. Between a risk of getting the rat plague and facing his brothers’ wrath for letting their wealth slip through his fingers, he would choose the plague any day. At least there was still a chance of survival along that path.

He stole away in the dead of night, taking a small motorized boat to carry him to the shore of the Old Port District, as the roads were now sure to be completely blocked off. As he neared his destination, he noticed, to his delight, that there was light streaming from a second-story window of the Hound Pits Pub – someone, at least, was still there! But when he docked, and failed to hear any of the cheering, booing and barking that usually carried from the Hound Pits to the shore with ease, Treavor felt his nerves (and his ever-persistent heartburn) returning full force.

His horrible prediction turned out to be true when he found his access to the Pits blocked by a sturdy iron barrier. The Hound Pits really were closed, and Treavor knew he was doomed. He couldn’t remain here, without the comforts he was used too, with the plague descending upon him. But he couldn’t return to Pendleton Estate either, at least not for long. If Custis and Morgan realised their fortune had truly come to an end, Treavor could not predict what they would do, but he was certain he would not get away unscathed, likely not even alive.

He sat on the steps leading to the Pits for hours, thinking, looking utterly like a peasant and not even caring. Treavor had always had trouble making decisions, even ones as simple as choosing which cravat he wished to wear. It was no wonder, with nearly all his decisions being made for him, either by his father or his brothers. He almost wished there was someone else who could make _this_ choice for him too.

And there was. As the first rays of sunshine appeared on the horizon, they were reflected in the shiny barrel of a pistol – a pistol aimed straight at Treavor Pendleton’s heart.

He nearly fainted then, both from exhaustion and shock, but he forced himself to stay conscious if only to plead for his life. Luckily, the broad-shouldered owner of the pistol seemed to realise Treavor was no threat fairly quickly, though he did initiate a thorough interrogation to confirm this. When Treavor Pendleton dropped his last name, the other seemed to be strangely interested, and in turn he introduced himself as Admiral Farley Havelock, leader of the Loyalists.

Havelock was a brisk man, and his explanation of the ultimate goals of the Loyalists was brief but instructive. Find Lady Emily Kaldwin, overthrow the Usurper Hiram Burrows and put the rightful Empress on the throne. Simple, really.

But he couldn’t do it alone. Capable as he was, Havelock was merely an Admiral, and a dishonourably discharged one at that. He had no pull with the nobility, none of the connections needed within court to actually keep the Empress on the throne once they’d succeeded – _once_ , Havelock had said confidently, not _if_. And that’s were Treavor came in.

In all honesty, Treavor wanted nothing to do with this brute and his ridiculous conspiracy. But he was broke, and he was desperate, and Havelock promised him a private room in the Hound Pits Pub if he decided to help. Not that the prospect of living in a pub was all that appealing, mind you, but the place, despite all its shortcomings, was safe; the plague had yet to claim the area, and most important of all, it was far, far away from Custis and Morgan.

So Lord Treavor Pendleton took up residence in the Hound Pits Pub. He made several trips back to the Estate to gather the comforts he’d need to see him through the ordeal (he could have done it in one trip, but that incompetent boatman insisted his wreck of a boat couldn’t handle so much baggage), but before long he was forced to call the run-down pub his home. The thought was depressing, to say the least, but he was alive, and there was enough alcohol to keep him pleasantly inebriated, even if the swill from the bar wasn’t up to his usual standards.

At least there were servants to make his life a little easier; the brisk owner of the pub and a soft-spoken, sulky maid, who made sure his room was clean and his meals were hot. All in all, Treavor could not complain. Much.

There was another Loyalist, too; Teague Martin, an Overseer with the cunning of a viper. He visited the pub periodically to have long, whispered conversations with Havelock in his room. The man didn’t trust Treavor, that much was clear, and it was also exactly how Treavor preferred it. Let them handle their conspiracy in private while he sat in his room to record his memoirs and drink his fill. His role within the Loyalist was minimal at this stage, and he knew he would barely have to lift a finger unless Havelock and Martin actually managed to restore Emily Kaldwin to the throne – a foolish endeavour, in any case, almost sure to fail. And if they somehow managed to pull it off, they wouldn’t be criminals anymore – they’d be heroes, Treavor included. Then he could do what he did best, talk his way into parliament, and he’d be set for life.

The more he thought about it, the more he wished for the Loyalists to succeed.

So, when Havelock invited him to join one of the hushed deliberations one evening, Treavor topped off his drink and went without complaint. The way Martin scowled at him made it clear Treavor would not be here if they did not have need of his skills – that is to say, connections – and Treavor sat up a little straighter at the notion.

It was that evening he learned of the first step of the intricately simple plan the Loyalists had concocted: break Corvo Attano out of prison.

The Royal Protector had been charged with the murder of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, even though no one with even an ounce of brain matter believed it to be true. Corvo had been utterly loyal to the Empress, and was even rumoured to have been her lover and the father of Lady Emily. He had more reason than anyone in Dunwall to overthrow Hiram Burrows and put Emily on the throne. To top it off, he was deadly with a blade, likely the finest swordsman in all of the Isles. Getting him to join their cause would be a giant step forward.

However, there were two problems. The first laid with equipment; even Corvo would need more than just his bare hands to successfully escape from Coldridge Prison. The second was access. While Martin was allowed to enter the prison ground in his duty as Overseer, and he would easily be able to plant supplies for Corvo in the sewers, even he would not be able to slip a message and a key to the Royal Protector unnoticed. They needed someone on the inside.

Treavor had wanted to laugh, then. It could not have been any simpler.

He wrote a letter to Captain Ren that very evening, giving no details but imploring him to use his pull to secure the loyalty of a guardsman on the inside for later use. While Custis and Morgan had taken most of the Pendletons’ guard platoon with them to the Golden Cat, a faction had stayed behind with Treavor, and they were utterly loyal to him. Treavor knew with a certainty that Ren would lay down his life for him if Treavor so much as asked, and a small illegal activity such as breaking a convicted felon out of prison would not rattle the Captain. Custis and Morgan had done far worse, surely.

The next morning, Treavor left to retrieve the one who would have to be their supplier of weaponry and armour for Corvo. The one person skilled enough to create high-end equipment designed for combat within such a small time frame besides the Royal Physician himself was Piero Joplin, the youngest person to ever attend the Academy of Natural Philosophy. Treavor had met the man on quite a few previous occasions, more often than not at the Golden Cat. He had seen enough of Joplin to know exactly what to say to convince him to take up the cause of the Loyalists; by working with them, Piero would be working against Anton Sokolov, whom he detested for expelling him from the Academy years prior. Throw in a loosely worded promise to make Joplin the new Royal Physician once Lady Emily was restored to the throne and he’d likely do anything they wanted.

And that was exactly how it went. Not half an hour after arriving at the dimly lit house littered with half-finished inventions did Piero agree to leave everything behind. It took another hour to pack everything Piero didn’t actually want to leave behind, but all in all it took extraordinarily little time.

When Treavor returned with the Natural Philosopher in tow, he earned a knee-buckling slap on the back from Havelock, and even an approving nod from Martin, however begrudgingly given. The three of them shared a drink that night, a toast to a small victory. It was the only drink Treavor needed all evening.

The following weeks Treavor spent most of his time in the company of Havelock to form a coherent plan of action once Corvo had been released from prison, part of which included finding a way of securing the Pendleton voting bloc. Treavor had lost count of the amount of letters he had sent Morgan and Custis, begging them not to support the Lord Regent in his endeavours, but the few responses he received were short, rude and incompliant. He had taken to writing his cousins Anna and Celia, hoping their influence might just sway his brothers. Meanwhile, Martin was out more often than not now, scouring Dunwall for useful information while they all waited for Piero to finish his work. Captain Ren had reported back swiftly, having already found the perfect man to deliver the necessary items to Corvo’s cell. The lack of cooperation from Custis and Morgan aside, things were progressing smoothly.

Then Piero announced Corvo’s equipment was ready and their plan was finally put into motion. Martin would enter the prison early in the morning, under the pretence of holding a sermon for the condemned. He would give the signal to Officer Thorpe, their insider, when it was time. Meanwhile, one of Martin’s confidants, whose name was elusive even to Havelock, would plant the weaponry and notes in the sewers. After that, it was all up to Corvo.

The day went by excruciatingly slowly for those who stayed behind at the Hound Pits Pub, and the longer they waited, the more on edge they became. No one had ever escaped from Coldridge alive; even a man as skilled as the Royal Protector would have trouble. Havelock estimated the chances of Corvo succeeding no higher than twenty percent.

So when _The Amaranth_ arrived carrying a dishevelled but otherwise unharmed Corvo Attano, the alcohol in his blood was the only thing that kept Treavor from passing out in relief. It would have warranted a party under normal circumstances – except for the fact that with gaining Corvo, they had lost Martin.

Treavor, for one, had little feelings of sympathy for the Overseer. He’d gotten himself caught, after all. But Martin was a good strategist, even Treavor had to admit, and his use to the Loyalist Conspiracy had not run out yet. They had to get him back.

Luckily, the first (and so far, only) item on their agenda after the release of Corvo was the elimination of High Overseer Campbell. The man was corrupt to the core, having gained his position in the Abbey through blackmail and deceit. He was also a fierce supporter of the Lord Regent, and that alone would have been enough to take him down. The reason why he was at the top of their hit list, though, was the notorious black book he carried, in which Campbell recorded all the dirt he had found on those who could be of use to him. In the worst case, it would only be enough to control the Abbey. In the best case, it would contain enough information to bring the Lord Regent’s reign to an end.

They dispatched Corvo the very next morning, granting the Royal Protector no more than a single hot meal and a few hours of sleep. Not that he seemed to mind; as expected, he was more than ready to deliver some payback to the people who had made his life hell.

Waiting was torture, again. And Corvo pulled through, again. Not only had he secured the black book, he had freed Martin from the stocks and cursed Campbell with the Heretic’s Brand, effectively having him ostracized from the Abbey. It would have been absolutely brilliant, except for one small detail: Campbell’s black book was written in code.

Treavor knew some basic coding methods from his youth, when he wanted to send Waverly a message he didn’t want his brothers to read, but whatever Campbell had concocted to encrypt his information was far beyond anything Treavor had ever used. Havelock, naturally, didn’t have the patience or the brains to concern himself with such delicate matters – or frivolous nonsense, as he called it himself. They would have to wait for Martin.

It was rather embarrassing that Martin, once he’d made his way back to the Hound Pits Pub, could read the black book almost effortlessly, save for some notes in the margins that seemed to have been written hastily and without much care. It took him less time to decipher where Lady Emily Kaldwin was being kept than it took Corvo to dispatch three Weepers in the sewers below.

Treavor would have sulked, if not for the information that arose from Martin’s translation: Emily Kaldwin resided at the Golden Cat, under the protection of Custis Pendleton and Morgan Pendleton.

He had dropped his drink, then, and cursed. That had been the last of one of his favourite vintages.

It was perfect, really. Treavor had spent most of his free time as a child imagining horrid ways for his brothers to perish, and as an adult the vindictive thoughts entered his mind more often than he’d like to admit. He had even shared some of his less morbid idea’s with Havelock, when the two of them discussed the means to transfer the Pendleton votes to Treavor. So why did the prospect of actually putting those plans to use make him feel so queasy?

He supposed it was a good thing there was little time to think much about it, as they would have to send Corvo out immediately if they wanted to find Emily before she was moved. The Lord Regent had already been a paranoid man back when he was still the Royal Spymaster, a trait which had likely become more pronounced after his rise to power. It was almost a certainty he would have the Kaldwin heir moved soon, if only to cover all his bases.

So Treavor told Corvo what had to be done, in carefully chosen words. Custis and Morgan had to be taken out of the picture completely, not only for Emily’s sake, but also to effectively transfer the rights of the Pendleton voting bloc to him. They could not take any chances.

He watched the waters until long after the small boat had disappeared on the horizon, and then took to strolling slowly around the grounds, pointedly avoiding the Pub. He did not need Lydia’s pity, or that redhead’s antics, or Havelock’s awkward attempt at sympathy. The only person he might be able to stomach would be Martin, who would just tell him to get over himself, but the Overseer was likely too absorbed in Campbell’s black book to even scowl at him. Truthfully, the company Treavor desired most was that of his wine bottle, but he knew he could not get drunk until after the arrival of Lady Emily. It wouldn’t do to leave a bad first impression, after all.

He ended up behind the tower that would become Emily’s abode, well hidden from prying eyes and just unable to see the dock where the boat would land. He felt strangely empty, and not just because he hadn’t had a drink in a while. He should be content, he tried to reason with himself. Not only would he never have to worry about Custis and Morgan again after today, he would also become the Pendleton heir. Not that there was much left to inherit, mind you, but the title and the votes alone would ensure his celebrity status in Dunwall. He would finally be a great and important person, just as he’d told Waverly he would be. Treavor Pendleton would finally be on top. He should be _happy_.

He supposed he was, in a way. It was just... whenever he had daydreamed about becoming Prime Minister or something of the like, the twins were there. He had always expected his brothers to see his rise to power, to marvel at his importance and to attempt to make amends with their youngest sibling. Wistful, Treavor supposed, but then he had never truly expected his fantasies to come true. Now that they had, he wasn’t quite sure how to feel.

When Corvo returned with the young Empress in tow, not a speck of blood on his clothes, Treavor thanked him courteously in the name of the Loyalists and went on to celebrate his first night as an only child with as much alcohol as he could get his hands on. Unbefitting of his status, he did not even go out of his way to greet Emily Kaldwin before he lost consciousness, despite his abstinence from alcohol that entire afternoon.

He did go to introduce himself once he’d sobered up the next morning, though. He wasn’t some sort of Neanderthal.

Corvo had already gone when Treavor was shooed out of the tower by the caretaker Havelock had hired to look after Emily. He supposed that was for the best; he did have a eulogy to prepare for that evening, and it would be challenging to write a properly anguished speech if his brothers’ assassin was sitting so close by.

He was halfway through the epitaph when the letter arrived, the content of which left him reeling for some time. He’d have to rewrite a large portion of that eulogy now.

Because Custis and Morgan were not dead. Instead, they’d had their heads shaved, their tongues cut out, and had been sent to work in the Pendleton mines. Treavor wasn’t entirely sure whether their fate was better or worse than death, but the mere fact that his immediate family members had not died because of a man sent by Treavor and his colleagues did loads to make him feel better.

With his spirits lifted, he realized he wouldn’t get very far writing a speech about his supposedly deceased brothers, so he instead wrote a quick note to Corvo to express his thanks and then fetched his mourning garments. The overly pale look the black suit gave him was enough to wipe the smile from his face.

Pendleton Manor almost seemed foreign to him when he returned, mostly because he had not seen this many people gathered at the estate since the death of his father. Vultures, he thought with venom as he regarded the nobility, some of whom didn’t even attempt to look sad. Shaw was even laughing openly with his plague rat of a wife, the uncouth bastard.

Nevertheless, he gave his speech solemnly and then spent the evening poured over a desk full of paperwork, ensuring none of the Pendleton votes would ever go to the Lord Regent as long as Treavor Pendleton drew breath.

He returned just in time to witness the interrogation of Sokolov, whom Corvo had somehow managed to retrieve from his quarters just past the heavily guarded Kaldwin’s Bridge. He’d have wondered how the former Royal Protector had managed it, but he was long past that stage. Instead, he opted to be intrigued by the information Sokolov readily gave upon being presented with a bottle of King Street Brandy: Hiram Burrows was funded by his mistress, and that mistress had the surname Boyle.

There was no doubt in Treavor’s mind that it was Waverly – the woman was drawn to power like a fly to honey. He almost wished he could go to the Boyle’s upcoming party himself, if only to see Corvo’s undoubtedly creative way of removing her from the public eye, but alas, it would be in poor taste for a Lord to attend such festivities mere days after the demise of his immediate family. So he settled for having Corvo promise to deliver a letter he had composed for ‘Lord’ Shaw the night before. No one could stand a chance in a duel with the Royal Protector, least of all that pompous fool Shaw. It should provide some entertainment in his social circle, at least.

It was only after Corvo returned again, with word of his success, when it dawned on Treavor that it was time to take out Burrows himself.

Martin, however, had taken note of the Lord Regent’s imminent demise weeks prior. The newly appointed High Overseer might have been busy at the Abbey, but the man was still as sharp as a whistle. He returned to the Hound Pits the evening before Corvo’s final departure and called for a meeting with his fellow conspirators – servants excluded.

It was with a sense of dread Treavor hadn’t felt since his first night as a Loyalist that he entered Havelock’s room that night. His co-conspirators were already there, huddled close together over Havelock’s desk. Martin beckoned him over with impatience, snapping at him to lock the door behind him. This had to be serious.

And it was. The plan Martin proposed was brilliant, inspired, and would firmly secure their positions in court once Hiram Burrows had been disposed of. The plan Martin proposed was also despicable, immoral, and would surely get them killed if it failed. Treavor honestly did not know what to think of it.

Martin wanted to poison Corvo Attano when he returned from Dunwall Tower, take him out of the picture the minute his usefulness came to an end. Stepping forward with the body of the man who, according to all official records, had murdered Empress Jessamine Kaldwin would make them instant heroes to the public. Then one of them could assume the title of Lord Regent and they could raise Emily to see their vision, effectively keeping them in power once the Empress came of age. They could rule, the three of them.

It was a prospect too alluring to deny, and so Treavor scraped together what little funds he had left and sent a member of his guard out to buy a rare, nearly undetectable poison from Tyvia. It was the same poison he’d often imagined slipping into Custis’ or Morgan’s drink, if only to see how one of them would fare without their twin.

When he returned to the Pub with the poison carefully tucked away in his coat, Corvo had already left to take his final vengeance. A pity it was the last thing he would ever do.

Martin ushered him into Havelock’s room immediately, glancing around periodically as if he was expecting the Outsider himself to be listening in. Treavor almost rolled his eyes. It seemed his new post had presented Martin with an unhealthy bout of paranoia. Not that it was too surprising, seeing as they were about to betray the person who had disposed of the previous High Overseer so very masterfully, but still.

Once inside, Havelock set them down and Martin began to explain just how the night would unfold, granted that Corvo succeeded in removing Hiram Burrows from the throne. As none of them doubted the Royal Protector in the slightest, Martin revealed he had been setting the servants to work on a celebratory get-together downstairs, both to keep the servants occupied and to create a plethora of opportunities for them to slip Corvo his poison. In a stroke of genius, Havelock would instruct Samuel (which was apparently the name of their boatman, Treavor learned) to actually poison Corvo’s drink. The boatman was still needed at this stage of their coup, but he had grown to respect Corvo, and there would be no telling whose side he would choose if it came to it. Making him an accomplice in the poisoning would be the perfect way to draw him into their web, to ensure his silence and loyalty. He looked up to Havelock too much to refuse, anyway.

The announcements blasting through the speakers brought the news of Burrows’ demise before Corvo even returned, his confession to having the Empress murdered repeated time and time again. Corvo had done it. Against all odds, the Royal Protector had pulled through, had eliminated all who had conspired against him without spilling so much as a drop of blood. He had finally proven his innocence. And when he came through the doors of the Hound Pits Pub, Treavor handed him a drink laced with one of the most potent poisons known to man.

Irony might be the glory of slaves, but the nobleman understood it well.

It took a surprisingly long time for the Royal Protector to succumb to the poison, no doubt because he had been nipping at his one drink so slowly it had made Treavor wonder if he suspected something was amiss. Nevertheless, he only just managed to make it to the attic before he collapsed, and Samuel was told to take the body away before the servants or the Empress noticed his disappearance. They would collect it later.

Retreating to Havelock’s room for the umpteenth time that week, the three Loyalists put their heads together one final time. They would come forward with Emily Kaldwin in tow and proclaim Havelock the Lord Regent – the most sensible choice, since Martin had already been appointed High Overseer and Treavor would be named Prime Minister, though Martin did not look pleased at the prospect. Afterwards, they would retreat to Kingsparrow Island, Burrows’ personal retreat, under the pretence of keeping Lady Emily safe for a while after all that had happened. There, they could groom the young Empress to their will.

Before they could leave, however, things at the Hounds Pit Pub had to be taken care of. Callista Curnow would be left behind, Havelock had declared; he needed her alive to settle a score with her uncle, a Captain of the guard, but her influence on Emily was too great to keep her around. The others, however, were a liability. Martin said it with a cold calculation that sent shivers up Treavor’s spine. One of the Natural Philosophers could prove useful in the future, but if they did not wish to cooperate, there were others. That all the servants had to be eliminated was a certainty; they knew far too much and had too little value. To this, Treavor agreed wholeheartedly.

Until Martin shot him a sideway glance and told him that by all the servants, he truly meant _all_ the servants.

And that had Treavor’s breath hitching in his throat.

Wallace. They wanted to kill _Wallace_.

Wallace, who had become his caretaker when Treavor was six years old. Wallace, who had played with him, had read to him, had tucked him into bed every night and always checked under the bed for the Outsider. Wallace, who had watched him grow up, who had played his wingman more often than he could count, who always kept the liquor cabinet stocked. Wallace, who had come with him to the Hound Pits without complaint, who had placed himself between Treavor and Havelock’s pistol without a second thought, who had ensured Treavor’s life at the Hound Pits Pub contained many of the comforts he was used to.

Wallace, who had been much more of a father, mother and older brother to him than his true family had ever been.

Treavor wanted to refuse. He had to refuse. He should have refused.

He didn’t refuse.

What was the life of one man to the prosperity of a whole empire, Treavor tried to reason with himself, his drink heavy in his hand. If Wallace had to die so Dunwall could live, was that not a most noble way to part? Was that not the way he would want to go, to give his life heroically for his Lord and his country? Wouldn’t Treavor be doing him a favour? Surely Wallace would understand.

It was a thinly veiled excuse concocted only to make himself feel better, but Treavor clung unto it for dear life, lest he lose his nerve. In truth, he was terrified. He was fearful of losing Wallace, but he was even more frightened of Havelock and Martin, what they would do to him if he refused. They were larger than he was, more intimidating than he was, and frankly, more important to the cause than he was. Treavor had no illusions of his power within the conspiracy; if he got difficult, he would be as expendable as Joplin and Sokolov. His true power would come once he assumed the office of Prime Minister, but that seemed incredibly far away at this point. If he blatantly went against his fellow conspirators on this, there would likely just be one more body to dispose of for them.

More than once, he thought to just run, to escape to Tyvia or Morley with Wallace and pretend this whole mess hadn’t happened in the first place. But in the end, he did not even have the courage to flee.

Havelock lured the servants outside with the promise of a bonus, a little extra to show appreciation for the hard work they had put in during such a stressing time. Treavor waited near Piero’s workshop with Martin, his heart hammering in his throat. The Natural Philosopher had shut himself inside his workshop with Sokolov for whatever reason, but Havelock had dismissed it as a trivial matter. The guard would take care of them later.

Emily was there, too, standing stiffly next to Martin, her eyes red from crying. Martin had locked Callista in the tower and taken the young Empress with him to witness just how serious the Loyalists were. It was an incentive to make her cooperate, he had said, though Treavor doubted the child would be more willing to work with them after this. He had kept quiet, though, lest Havelock and Martin decided they could just as well execute him today, too. The thought alone was enough for him to take a large sip from his flask.

When Havelock finally led Wallace and Lydia out, Treavor’s flask was empty and his mind was clouded. He vaguely registered that there should be another one, a redhead, but the thought seemed so very unimportant when Wallace stopped before them and clasped his hands behind his back, standing tall and proper as befit the head servant of the Pendleton heir. His posture was stiff, as always, but his brow was furrowed and his eyes were sharp, as if a storm was brewing behind them.

And that was when Treavor realised that Wallace knew exactly what was going to happen. Yet here he was, ready to die for his master, as he’d always said he would. It was almost enough to make Treavor plead for his life after all.

Almost.

Lydia went first. Martin was behind her in a flash, forcing her to her knees as Havelock loaded his pistol. It took her all but three seconds to realise what was happening, and then she was shouting obscenities at the three of them, using words the young Empress never should have heard. Havelock gave her a calm, rehearsed speech, more than a simple explanation but not quite an apology, and Treavor turned away then.

The shot was deafening, yet somehow not loud enough to drown out Lydia’s last insult to Havelock, which seemed to reverberate in Treavor’s skull long after her body had hit the ground. Those were her last words, he mused almost idly as he waited for Martin to drape a sheet over the body. She’d known those were her last words, and yet she had chosen to use her final opportunity to speak to tell Havelock to go fuck himself. It was stupid, and uncouth, and Treavor wished he held even a fraction of her bravery.

It wasn’t until he heard the click of Havelock’s gun as he reloaded that Treavor was pulled back to the reality of the situation. The body had been covered, but there was blood and some chunks that looked suspiciously like brain matter, and Treavor had to suppress the urge to empty his stomach’s contents (which consisted entirely of alcohol) onto the doorstep of Piero’s workshop.

Wallace was still looking ahead with that strange expression on his face, his features far too calm for a man who was about to die. Martin circled behind him, but Wallace sank down to his knees on his own accord, somehow still managing to look proper. And when Havelock pointed the gun at his head, that was when he looked at Treavor, and smiled.

“It was an honour to serve you, Lord Treavor.”

The words slammed into Treavor like a batting ram, forcing all the air from his lungs. But he needed the air, because he had to shout, he had to say something, he had to _stop_ _this_ –

He hardly even heard the gunshot, but he saw its effects so clearly he was certain it would be all he’d ever be able to see again. The red colour of his blood, the glaze that set over his eyes before his body even hit the floor, the way he still managed to seem so genteel even in the awkward angle he ended up in – truly, Treavor would never see anything else again.

He let out a choked sob, then, and promptly retched until long after his stomach was empty. Surely Havelock was rolling his eyes, and Martin was laughing at him, but his ears were still ringing, and all he could see was red, and glazed eyes, and genteelness.

They left, the four of them, heading for the safety of Kingsparrow Island. Havelock announced his rule, Martin running left and right to give orders to men of the City Watch and Overseers of the Abbey alike. But all Treavor could see was red, and glazed eyes, and genteelness.

They sat down at the oversized table in Burrows’ oversized office, pointedly ignoring the high-pitched demands coming from the girl Martin had just locked in an improvised bedroom. Havelock handed him a glass of the finest whiskey, and though Treavor couldn’t see anything but red, and glazed eyes, and genteelness, he could smell it. Poison, just a small whiff of acidity that shouldn’t have been there, the very same scent that he had detected in the drink they had used to take out Corvo. Apparently, the title of Lord Regent came with an almost instant case of utter insanity.

He considered, briefly, pretending to drink, pretending to be dead. He could steal away once night fell, and head for Morley, and live out the rest of his life seeing nothing but red, and glazed eyes, and genteelness.

The prospect was not alluring.

Corvo hadn’t cared for death, he had told Treavor once after he had returned from Boyle Manor. He preferred to allow others to live with the burden of their sins, and Treavor had been unsure if that was mercy or cruelty. Now, as he absentmindedly swivelled the deadly drink in its crystal container, he realised he still wasn’t sure.

And when he raised the glass to his lips, he wasn’t sure if it was courageous or cowardly, but it was a decision, perhaps the first he had ever fully made on his own, and that had to be worth something.

When he arrived in the Void, he thought as his vision began to blur, and the red, and the glazed eyes, and the genteelness swam before his mind’s eye, perhaps the Outsider would be kind enough to blind him.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Holy shit the Dishonored fandom is so much bigger on here than on fanfiction I love it hiiiiii~~
> 
> I replayed Dishonored before starting Dishonored 2 some time ago and I was hit with lots and lots of Treavor feels. He's somehow weaselled his cowardly behind into my heart and I loathe that it's impossible to save his life regardless of chaos level, so I had to write something for him. This started as an attempt to write a compressed version of a biography about Treavor's life, as sort of a character study - considering servants are rarely mentioned when talking of nobility, Wallace was not supposed to be a part of this at all. Then I went into the Loyalist Conspiracy a bit too deeply, and Wallace showed up regardless because I love Wallace with a passion, and things went from there.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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